Chapter 3: Successful Extraction
The combat blade was centimeters from the Sergeant's throat, but Kian didn't push.
Unlock an Extraction Point? Unlock a military contact? Throne's sake, this is a legendary-tier roll!
Currently, Kian only had one way out of the "raid": a massive, rusting ventilation shaft that led deep into the Hive's sub-levels. It was a cavernous conduit big enough for two Leman Russ tanks to drive through side-by-side.
As for contacts, he only had one: a grease-stained black market dealer in the Underhive who bought trash and sold... well, slightly more expensive trash.
The chance to get a "Grade-A" military contact was something Kian couldn't refuse.
He lowered the knife and hoisted the PDF Sergeant—Rudolphson—off the ground. He needed to check the man's vitals, but Rudolphson wasn't making it easy. He thrashed and spat blood, his eyes wild with delirium.
"Traitor! Filth! Die!" the Sergeant wheezed.
Kian, losing his patience, delivered two sharp slaps across the man's face. Smack-smack!
"Shut it! I'm not a heretic, you grox-brained idiot! I'm an Underhive scavenger! I'm out here picking up the scraps you lot leave behind!" Kian roared. "By the God-Emperor's Throne, if I were with the rebels, I'd have fed you your own tongue by now!"
Rudolphson went still. His eyes cleared slightly, staring at Kian with a mix of shock and confusion.
"Now, stay quiet and let me stop the bleeding, or we're both going to get caught and 'processed' by those secessionist freaks!"
The Sergeant stopped struggling. Kian went to work. Rudolphson had a mangled right hand and a bullet wound through his calf. Kian tore strips of cloth from a nearby corpse, bundled them into a crude plug, and shoved it directly into the bullet hole in the Sergeant's leg.
Rudolphson nearly vaulted out of his skin, his teeth grinding so hard Kian thought they'd shatter. But he didn't scream. Kian wrapped the cloth tight, performing a "battlefield dressing" that was as effective as it was unhygienic.
He wouldn't bleed out yet. But how to move him? Rudolphson weighed at least 70 kilos, and Kian was already carrying a small armory.
He scanned the trench and spotted a rusted metal trolley—likely used by the PDF labor corps to haul sandbags. It was perfect.
Kian threw his scavenged autoguns into the cart, cleared the chambers of his prizes, and then unceremoniously dumped the Sergeant on top of them.
"Don't cause any trouble," Kian grunted, grabbing the handle. "I'm dragging you to the PDF lines, then I'm gone."
"Wait..." Rudolphson rasped as the cart began to move.
Kian looked back.
"The dog tags... take them. My men... don't let their names be forgotten in the mud."
Kian paused. The man truly was a veteran. He hopped back into the trench, ripped the identification plates off the fallen PDF soldiers, and tossed them into the cart with the Sergeant.
"You owe me a massive favor for this."
The journey was a grueling slog. Kian was hauling over 100 kilograms of man and metal through the agricultural fields. His lungs felt like they were full of hot coals.
On the plus side, Agri-World 496b was beautiful. In the 3k era, a blue sky and green crops were common. In the 41st millennium, such things were a luxury reserved for the elite.
As he ran, his Tactical Cogitator pinged with status updates:
[Strength increased: 10
→\to→ 11]
[Endurance increased: 10
→\to→ 12]
He stopped in a small hollow to rest. Rudolphson had passed out from blood loss and exhaustion. Kian wolfed down two packs of corpse-starch crackers and drained half a canteen of water, bringing his "Energy" and "Hydration" bars back to 100%.
He checked his mental map. The PDF perimeter was only two kilometers away. Beyond that stood the Hive City—a mountain of steel and stone that pierced the very atmosphere. His extraction point, however, was 20 kilometers in the opposite direction.
"My legs are going to fall off," Kian groaned.
By the time he reached the PDF lines, night had fallen. The sky was dotted with stars and the glowing trails of orbital stations and warships.
Three hundred meters from the PDF trenches, Kian hit the wire. He could see the searchlights and the silhouette of automated turret towers. He dumped Rudolphson out of the trolley and woke him up with a splash of water to the face.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty! You're home!"
Rudolphson blinked, seeing the Imperial Aquila emblazoned on the distant bunkers. He gasped with relief and prepared to shout for help.
Kian clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shhh! Not until I'm gone. I don't need your buddies 'interrogating' a scavenger like me."
Rudolphson nodded slowly. His gaze was complicated—part gratitude, part professional curiosity.
"I owe you my life," the Sergeant whispered. "What is your name?"
Kian pointed to his grime-streaked face. "Remember this face. And remember the name: Kian Voss, Scavenger. Look for me when you've got something worth trading. Now, count to a hundred before you start screaming for the medics."
Kian grabbed the trolley and vanished into the darkness, moving like a ghost.
Rudolphson watched him go, muttering, "Kian Voss... I won't forget—wait, where's my damn Lasgun?!"
Kian was already a kilometer away, running at a full sprint. He checked the trolley. Four PDF autoguns and one pristine Kantrael-pattern Lasgun sat inside.
"Jackpot!" Kian cackled, humming a victory tune. "Extraction is a beautiful thing!"
Just before dawn, he reached the Great Ventilator. It was a colossal, crumbling pipe made of rusted plasteel. He dragged the cart into the shadows of the conduit.
A green timer appeared in his field of vision.
[Extraction Imminent: 10... 9... 8...]
As the counter hit zero, the world blurred. The smell of fresh grain and ozone was replaced by the stench of industrial chemicals and stale air.
He was back in his Sanctum—a reinforced, lightless room in the deepest bowels of the Underhive.
[COGITATOR REPORT]
Status: Extraction Successful! (Masterful Rating)
Loot Value: 36,300 Agri-Scrips
Mission Complete: Sergeant Rudolphson rescued.
New Contact Unlocked: [Sergeant Rudolphson - PDF Logistics]
Reputation: PDF Faction (+10)
Kian collapsed onto his moth-eaten cot, staring at the pile of high-grade Imperial weaponry on the floor.
"Thirty-six thousand scrips..." he whispered. "I'm going to need a bigger stash box."